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by Charles Carreon
Make ink from bloodstone,
spurious one,
Write long, lavish manuscripts upon the linen of your
heart,
Empowering yourself with mythic words,
Requiring witness of your own two eyes,
Seated in the garden of the sun,
Among the trees of gold,
Where jeweled birds twitter,
And spirals of light wander lazily forth from the maze at
the heart of the sun,
Setting golden flakes upon the feathers and the trees,
Flakes that balance delicately till they dissolve
Into the very air.
Call your eyes to
witness, then,
The deed that has been done,
Upon the linen parchment,
Words of arterial brightness,
Written in the garden of the sun.
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